


ready to win

by redrider



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 20:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redrider/pseuds/redrider
Summary: He lifts Devante's sleeve during warmup and bites his arm, just hard enough to leave a fading imprint of his incisors.





	ready to win

**Author's Note:**

  * For [R_Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Knight/gifts).



> A moment of silence for the truly delightful ideas that got left on the cutting room floor in the pursuit of this story, such as "Andre gets smart for Devo". The title is from Tokyo Police Club's "Ready to Win".
> 
> _tell them they're great, tell them they're splendid / no matter how all of their fuck-ups have ended_

Tom already knows Devante, from back home.

Andre swallows an unfamiliar twinge of jealousy. There's a GTA clique on every team, bonded by authentic Canadian hockey childhoods and summers working out together. Andre is used to that by now, but he's annoyed anyway. If Tom were a gentleman — which he's not and never will be — he would have introduced them already.

Tom and Devante are leaning against the boards when Andre skates up.

"Hello," he says, bouncing gently off Tom and drifting to a stop in front of them.

Tom swipes for the front of Andre's jersey and misses. "Meet your new kid brother," he says to Devante. "I hope you like babysitting."

Devante smiles, a warm gap-toothed Ovechkin grin. "Happy to help."

Andre spins around and back, a circle to nowhere, feeling oddly warm considering they've barely started skating yet. "Fuck off, Tom."

Tom ignores him. "It's like fucking kindergarten around here," he says and that's how training camp starts.

—

Devante earns a spot on the opening night roster, even with his bad knee.

Andre is hugely, privately relieved in a way he barely understands. "Glad to have you," he tells Devante during warm-up before their first game together.

"Glad to be here," Devante says, grinning.

Tom crushes them both into the boards and that's how the season starts.

—

It's not like Devante says much, but he says enough. It doesn't take long for Andre to hate New Jersey. He despairs for Jojo.

They play the Devils the fifth game of the season and Andre is feeling hot and stupid, which is what he blames the fight on later.

He watches the highlights on the bus with Tom after. "You gotta work on your —" Tom gestures vaguely for a moment, "— intimidation."

Devante leans over the seat from behind them. "You're too nice for fighting."

"Fuck New Jersey," Andre says decisively. His hands still hurt. He hope Devante understands what he means.

Devante laughs and reaches over to ruffle Andre's hair, which delights Tom. Andre can't really think about his hands after that.

—

Before one of the team dinners on the road, Devante asks Brett, almost too quietly for Andre to hear, "It's always like this?"

"It's always like this," Brett says.

Devante raises his eyebrows as the server finishes dragging the tables together so they'll all fit.

It sounds like Brett says, "I told you," but Andre barely hears. He makes sure he gets the spot next to Devante when they all sit down.

—

So anyway. It's not a thing.

It's just — this bone-deep desire to be around Devante, to touch him or talk to him. It's huge and scary and Andre doesn't really feel like examining it.

He lifts Devante's sleeve during warm-up and bites his arm, just hard enough to leave a fading imprint of his incisors. He savours the look on Devante's face after he lets go for the next three days.

—

The bar is so loud. Andre squeezes past Christian, bumping his shoulder, to get the spot beside Devante before they all squish into the booth.

Christian's drink slops onto his hand. "Ugh," he says.

Andre shrugs an apology.

An army of pitchers arrives and someone starts pouring, passing glasses around the table. Andre feels light-headed even though he's barely touched his beer. He only makes it through half his glass before he can't help himself. He leans into Devante's shoulder. "Come over," he whispers. "We can — we can play chel, or just — whatever."

Devante places his hand on the table, fingers careful against the fake wood grain. "Okay," he says, not looking at Andre.

Andre swallows. He should say something else, but he can't think of a single word.

"The next time someone leaves," Devante says, so quietly, "we'll go too."

Andre nods. He takes a gulp of beer and almost chokes.

It seems like an eternity until someone gets up but finally Brett finishes his drink and stands, shoving Jakub's shoulder to get out of the booth. Andre scrambles to his feet too, nearly tripping over Christian.

"You okay?" Christian says.

"Just tired," Andre says. He pretends to fumble with his wallet, even though Ovi will definitely pick up the bill, pretends he's not waiting to make sure Devante leaves too. He can't tell if he's being obvious. He probably is.

Brett slaps him on the shoulder as he passes, which makes Andre jump. When he turns back, Devante is standing there. "Goodnight," he says, but he grins.

—

They go to Andre's.

Devante sits on the couch and Andre hovers near the television, unsure. Finally, he switches it on and then goes into the kitchen. Everything up until this point suddenly feels easy, inevitable. It was always going to end up with Andre looking aimlessly in the fridge and Devante sitting on his couch. The next step is the impossible one.

He grabs two bottles of water and goes back out. It feels tacky to offer another beer and childish to offer anything else. Devante is still sitting there, which feels like it's own miracle. Andre is probably a minor saint at this point.

He hadn't meant for them to actually play video games, but he isn't sure what else to do, so he turns the console on. Devante accepts the controller. He seems content to go along with whatever Andre does, no matter how stupid it is.

The room is too quiet, nothing but the sounds of their tiny on-screen teams. Devante stands up to celebrate a goal and when he sits down again, he's half a foot closer. Andre can't tell if he did it on purpose.

He's so distracted that he skates his player into the boards and doesn't notice. Devante elbows him; he starts and gives up the puck. He's not drunk, but he wishes he was.

If he doesn't do something soon, he's going to combust. He scoots closer to Devante, until their elbows bump and he's definitely in the way of Devante's game. He kind of hopes Devante will just ignore him, but of course he doesn't. When he turns to look at Andre, his expression is careful.

"Oh my god," Andre says. It's possible he drops his controller. A million fireworks are going off inside his head and it's hard to think. He's half a second away from tackling Devante back into the couch, but just as he makes up his mind to move, Devante says, "It's helpful if you say what you want"

A meteor of embarrassment crash lands in Andre's stomach. He face burns up. "Oh my god," he says again.

Devante places a warm hand on his knee. It's supposed to be comforting, but it's the opposite. The meteor reignites. His stomach is on fire. He's halfway hard. He's going to die before he formulates another sentence. Some survivalistic part of his brain detaches and makes a run for it and, miraculously, he chokes out, "You."

Devante smiles. "That's easy, then," he says, and pulls Andre in by his elbow.

The invitation is half the release; the kiss is the rest. Andre practically collapses against Devante, openly desperate now. He's too frantic and he bites Devante's lip hard enough to hurt, but Devante just laughs, muffled into the kiss, and wraps his hand around the back of Andre's neck.

That's almost too much. Andre pulls back, sucking in a huge breath. "Oh my god, fuck," he says nonsensically. He thought it might be harder than this, but it's not. He can't stop looking at Devante's mouth.

"C'mere," Devante says. He definitely has his shit together more than Andre. It occurs to Andre that Devante has probably done this before, which makes him feel weird and warm, not jealous but interested.

This time, he does climb into Devante's lap.

Devante's hands feel huge on his back and Andre shudders, kisses him harder. If they keep this up, he's not going to make it farther than — "Djoos," Andre manages, pulling back. "Djoos is gonna be home."

"What do you want to do?" Devante asks.

Andre considers trying to sneak Devante out of his room in the morning and blushes. Which is how he ends up alone in bed, too keyed up to sleep, regretting letting Christian move in with him for the first time ever.

—

"Did you have someone over last night?" Christian says neutrally. He puts a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Andre.

"What is this?" Andre says, poking at green flecks in the eggs.

"Spinach," Christian says. "It's good for you. Did you?"

Andre shovels eggs into his mouth, feigning confusion.

"Have someone over?" Christian repeats.

"No," Andre says. "Why?"

"Oh, it's just that there were two controllers plugged in, so I thought you must have been playing with someone."

"The spinach is good," Andre says.

Christian looks pleased. "You have to make your own toast," he says and doesn't ask any more questions.

—

Devante looks the same as he always does when Andre sees him at the rink. Andre isn't sure what he was expecting. Devante smiles when he sees him, then smiles wider when Andre blushes.

Andre bites his arm during warm-up, like always, and Devante brings a hand up to cup the back of Andre's head, just for a second.

It leaves Andre warm and shaky.

—

He follows Devante off the ice. "Invite me over," he says, as quietly as he can. He might shout. He doesn't care.

Devante turns at the mouth of the dressing room, gaze wicked. "Come over," he says.

Andre could kiss him right there.

—

Andre backs him against the counter in Devante's kitchen, because it feels like something from a movie. He's a little taller than Devante and it makes his throat warm. Devante smells like soap and a specific cold note from the rink. He kisses Andre until it's hard to breath.

Andre has some vague ideas about what should happen next, but in the end it all sort of works itself out. He pushes against Devante's leg until Devante slips a hand down between them and Andre gasps, a huge gut-punch of arousal, and decides he would rather not do any of this in the kitchen.

He strips his shirt off in the hallway and is mostly naked by the time they make it to Devante's bed. Devante laughs and runs a hand down Andre's side, making him shiver. "God, you're so —" he says.

"So what?" Andre says, trying to keep Devante's hands on him and get Devante's shirt off at the same time.

"Energetic," Devante says, and ducks his head down to kiss Andre's belly.

"Is that bad?" Andre says, finally winning the battle with Devante's shirt.

"No," Devante says, and then it's hard to talk much after that.

Andre thought it would be harder, but it's not. He doesn't last much past Devante finally getting his hands on him and some combination of his own enthusiasm and Devante's assistance gets Devante to follow quickly suite. He lays a hundred tiny kisses on Devante's face after, until Devante laughs and rolls them both over, pinning Andre halfway to the bed, his face in Andre's shoulder.

"Hey," Andre whispers. "I'm glad you're here."

He can feel Devante smile against his skin. "Glad to be here."


End file.
